


Glory to the King

by Aequoria, NightysWolf



Series: Zines and Events [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Canon Major Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, FFXV Minibang, Gen, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:28:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21736849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoria/pseuds/Aequoria, https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightysWolf/pseuds/NightysWolf
Summary: And a sword shall pierce the soul of the father, as a sword shall pierce the body of the son.Regis is called to sacrifice what he loves most for the sake of the world. Haunted by the things he has done in the name of the prophecy, he lives each moment faced with a stark choice: to be a king, or to be a father?The journey of a king not chosen, as told through the Seven Sorrows of Mary and created in conjunction with renders from the incredibly talented NightysWolf.
Relationships: Noctis Lucis Caelum & Regis Lucis Caelum, Noctis Lucis Caelum/Lunafreya Nox Fleuret (minor)
Series: Zines and Events [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1618480
Comments: 8
Kudos: 53
Collections: FFXV Minibang 2019





	Glory to the King

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my piece for the super fun FFXV Minibang 2019, and I'm really excited that I got to work with the inimitable NightysWolf :)
> 
> A lot of FFXV seems to draw from Christian symbolism and typology, and I thought it would be interesting to play around with that. Viewing Regis' life through the lens of Mary was a really interesting exercise, and it combines two of my great loves. I hope you enjoy reading this!
> 
> EDIT: Apologies to everyone who read this without the art, it has been added now!! Technical issues...

* * *

**The First Sorrow: Nunc Dimittis**

* * *

_(At last, through the light of my Providence, I give leave to the souls of my faithful servants to rest.)_

Regis’ head snaps up from its bowed position. “Rest?” he questions.

But the Crystal does not answer. It’s rare that the reigning king is summoned directly to the Crystal Room; Bahamut tends not to reveal himself to mortals often, so Regis was expecting more explanation than this. It would have to be something important for the Draconian himself to send a message.

Regis sighs, his joints aching, but he doesn’t get up in case Bahamut takes offence. The cold marble is absolutely _hell_ on his knees, even though he’s barely approaching middle age. He knows it must be the Ring sucking the life out of him, knows his very soul is tied to this thing on his finger. He’s made his peace with that sacrifice, but he wishes it didn’t have to be so difficult.

Then again, Bahamut had mentioned _rest_. Perhaps the time has come when all the Lucian kings can retire from their service and join their loved ones in the afterlife.

Excitement fills Regis as he imagines being the one to finally end it all. It will hurt, he thinks. He will have to die, and knowing the Astrals as he does, there will be much suffering along the way. But if he can spare Noctis even a moment of that— if he can grant Noctis peace— he would do it a thousand times over.

And again, the Crystal speaks.

_(Behold your salvation, behold him who will rise above all nations.)_

An image appears in his mind of his own sweet child, and Regis smiles at the memory. Noctis has gotten so big now, five years old and curious about everything.

But the image stays, and morphs into a vision. Noctis as a child still, yet older, his gaze solemn and distant like a soldier. Noctis in adolescence, sullen and aloof. Noctis as a young man, wielding a sword Regis recognises as his own.

Noctis as a king, with the light of dawn behind him. Sunlight catches in his hair and his eyes glow with an inner fire. At his feet, the world awakens as if from a deep slumber; with his right hand he scatters the stars back into the sky. The moon rises at his side, and he is clothed with water and earth, lightning and metal, ice and fire.

_(A light to give life to the people, and set the world ablaze in glory.)_

“Noctis,” Regis gasps, and the vision disappears.

Again, he kneels alone on the marble, the Crystal silent before him. He bangs a fist on the floor.

Noctis, his child. His baby son, who will bear the weight of the world and bring it to salvation. Noctis, who only today crawled into his lap at a Council meeting because he missed him, who asked for sweets and drew him crayon pictures in return.

Noctis, who will fulfill the prophecy of centuries.

Pride wars with sorrow at the thought. To think that Regis will be the one to raise the fabled King of Light!— the one to raise his child to slaughter.

_(And a sword shall pierce the soul of the father, as a sword shall pierce the body of the son. For the child I have sent will be my Sign, and many will oppose him.)_

“Why him?” Regis asks. His voice is hoarse, but he does not remember screaming. “Can you not take me instead?”

But the prophecy has been told; the Crystal has spoken. It will not speak again until the time of the King of Kings has come.

And until that time, Regis vows, no harm shall ever befall his son. No force on earth will ever touch him as long as Regis lives. If he can spare Noctis even a moment of suffering, he will.

No matter what it takes.

* * *

**The Second Sorrow: Flight**

* * *

His failure to protect Noctis from the Marilith sends them both to Tenebrae. For a while, there is refuge. For a while, there is safety.

Noctis has not been the same since the attack. His poor child has been so withdrawn lately, but around Princess Lunafreya he seems to come to life again. It’s slow going, but Regis teaches him how to fish, and Lunafreya wheels him out into the sylleblossom fields for fresh air. Even gangly, shy Ravus comes and awkwardly attempts to entertain Noctis, although he is not as successful as his sister. Regis thanks him for his efforts regardless.

It’s painful to see Noctis suffering, but he adapts as all children do. He learns how to use his wheelchair and get himself into bed, although Regis likes to help him whenever Noctis allows. With every healing session with Queen Sylva, pieces of Noctis’ independence and confidence return. There are bad days, of course, _terrible_ days, but on good ones Noctis almost seems back to his old self.

The Nox Fleuret family has been an absolute blessing to them. The servants are all very kind to Noctis, and Regis _knows_ they slip him sweets and little toys when they think the King is not looking. Even the ordinary people of Tenebrae adorn the streets with flowers and broadcast well-wishes over the radio for the visiting royals. It’s a beautiful country with a beautiful heart. Things are going so well that Regis thinks he may start to pay more regular visits, perhaps once a year, as an escape from the political intrigues of Lucis. Of course, the Citadel would be open to the Tenebraen royal family in the same manner.

One damp autumn afternoon, Lunafreya wheels Noctis out of the fields towards the forest where everyone is waiting for them. Noctis had been asking after an excursion into the woods, and Ravus had been eager to show off the country’s natural beauty. Regis wonders how they will navigate the trees with a wheelchair, but Sylva assures him that Ravus had mapped out a perfectly accessible route.

Regis raises a hand to greet the children. Lunafreya looks up and screams.

Magitek soldiers drop from the skies like rain. Regis doesn’t know how they got there, but right now it doesn’t matter. People are cut down left and right— soldiers shout— something is burning— and above it all, Noctis is crying.

Regis whirls around to find his son. Noctis lifts his arms, helpless, _terrified_. In the chaos, he is all Regis can see.

“Noctis!” he shouts. Summoning his sword, he cuts down the enemies in his way. The Tenebraen guards try to carve a path for him, but they’re outnumbered.

A wall of flame bursts out on his left. Sylva throws herself in front of her son. Ravus is screaming, face streamed with the blood of his mother. Regis spares him only a quick glance as he parries a blow from Glauca, and manages to throw him off long enough to scoop Noctis into his arms.

Lunafreya stands frozen beside them, and Regis grabs her hand and runs.

He’ll lose the soldiers in the woods. Beyond the trees, the Regalia is parked. Fenestala is beyond help, but he will get the children to safety if it’s the last thing he does.

“King Regis!” Ravus shouts, _begs_. “Help us!”

For one moment, Regis hesitates.

_(—Noctis clutches tighter at his shoulders, heavy breathing in his ears, tiny body wracked with fear—)_

But it’s only for a moment.

Decision made, he continues running. He can’t afford to stop now. Noctis will be the King of Light, and in him rests the hope of the world. Regis _cannot_ let him die now.

Even if he could bear it— even if he’d _wanted_ to fight— he can’t. The screams follow him as he flees through the forest.

_(What kind of king are you?)_

He runs faster.

Lunafreya’s hand slips from his. Surprised, he looks back to search for her. He’s ready to carry her too, expecting her to have fallen on a stray root, but instead she stands firm, gaze steady and resigned. Outlined in fire, she cuts a solemn figure, the shape of a child who does not yet know what horrors she is sacrificing herself to— only that she does it out of love.

Regis forces himself to turn away.

 _No matter what it takes_ , Regis thinks as he carries Noctis away. _No matter what it takes._

He does not think of the palace burning behind him, or the children left abandoned. He does not think of what the Empire would do to a sixteen year old prince and a child princess. He does not think of a beautiful country razed to the ground, or the magic in his own veins that could have saved them all.

He can only run, and run, and run.

(In his nightmares, he’ll hear the cries of all the ones he left behind, and the breaking voice of a young prince who’d trusted him to help.)

* * *

**The Third Sorrow: Loss in the Temple**

* * *

Prompto Argentum is the best thing to ever happen to his son, and Regis can’t help but resent him.

He knows Noctis loves him, and loves Ignis and Gladio and Lunafreya with all of his young heart. But Prompto has been giving Noctis something none of them can, and he’s wormed his way into Noctis’ life with earnest enthusiasm.

Regis has nothing against the boy, really. Everyone who has met him agrees that he is a harmless, amiable sort, with a sweet disposition and the ability to somehow talk Noctis into doing his schoolwork and other duties.

It’s just that Regis hasn’t seen much of Noctis since he moved out of the Citadel. Regis’ obligations to his warring kingdom and Noctis’ growing responsibilities mean their schedules are full most days. They don’t even have a chance to pass each other in the halls.

It feels like there is a rift, and it grows more and more each day. Regis can’t help his own weakness, and he sees it affecting Noctis. He curses himself for not being stronger. He curses himself for not being _there_.

Prompto is there, and hopefully always will be. It’s pure foolishness, pinning all of his hopes on a mere child. Regis _keeps doing_ it, to his own consternation. Gladiolus, Ignis, and now Prompto— they fill a void in Noctis’ heart that Regis fears he himself left. A void he desperately tries to fill with everything Noctis could want: games, clothes, a car, his freedom.

The Council and the public can say what they like. Noctis is the most important thing in the world to him. He’s the most important thing in _everyone’s_ world, although they don’t even know it yet.

“Dad?” A voice interrupts his darkening thoughts.

“Noctis?” Regis says, surprised. He turns around to see his son waiting at the end of the corridor, school bag slung over one shoulder. “I didn’t expect you here tonight.”

Noctis shrugs. “Heater broke. Repair guy’s only coming in tomorrow morning, so I drove here. Don’t worry, Gladio was with me.”

He looks uncertain. The bag slips down to his elbow and he shoves it back up with a little too much concentration, as though glad for a break in the conversation.

Regis knows the feeling. He’s not sure what to say either.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Regis eventually says.

Noctis frowns, but neither agrees nor disagrees. Instead, he asks, “Why were you in this wing? My rooms are the only ones here, and you didn’t know I’d be coming over.”

 _Ah. Caught._ Regis gives a rueful smile. “I fancied a walk. Would it be so odd if I said I just missed you?”

“Dad!” Noctis exclaims. He dithers for a moment, then runs up to embrace him, hiding his face in Regis’ dressing gown.

Regis only laughs and pats him on the head. Sixteen years old and easier than ever to embarrass. In moments like these, it’s as though the chasm doesn’t exist, like Regis can ignore the weight of Noctis’ future bearing down on them like a burning sun.

“I did, you know,” Regis murmurs. “Miss you.”

Noctis makes an incomprehensible noise, muffled by the dressing gown.

Regis presses a kiss to the top of his son’s head and allows him to untangle himself from the embrace. “Let’s go fishing this Saturday,” he says on impulse.

Noctis immediately perks up. He’s perfected the aloof, calm persona required for public appearances, but Regis would now that excited gleam anywhere. “Really? You’re not busy?”

He is. He has far too much on his plate to spend a few hours fishing, but he wants it so badly it hurts.

“I won’t be.”

Noctis stares at him, assessing. Then he sighs, and it’s as though he visibly withdraws into himself.

“You’re not really free tomorrow, are you?” Noctis says. “The people need their king, Dad. I can wait a little longer. I’ll watch a movie with Prompto or something.” He tries for a reassuring grin, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“It will be fine, Noctis. The kingdom can wait for once.”

“Not really, Dad. I know how hard you work. You pour so much of yourself into the kingdom, it— I—“ Noctis struggles for words. “I know I’m not as… responsible as you want me to be. Don’t let me hold you back.”

 _What kind of king am I?_ Regis thinks. If only his son knew what has already been sacrificed for his sake, all the sins Regis will never atone for.

“Oh, son,” Regis sighs. He draws Noctis into another embrace and tucks him in under his chin. “You have never held me back. I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you, but I will try. I promise.”

Noctis is still a child in so many ways. Regis thinks he always will be, if only to him. But already, there are hints of the king he will become, hidden in the steadiness of his voice and set of his shoulders, in his noble grace and the deep compassion of his heart.

He will be _magnificent_.

Although Noctis is set apart from all the world, Regis can only hope that he won’t be alone.

Years later, Regis will look at his son for the last time on the steps of the Citadel. The Regalia will purr to life, and he will see how eager Noctis is to set off. Ignis and Gladio will stand stoically behind him, and Prompto will bounce nervously on his heels. They will all have grown up wonderfully, and Regis will not live to see their full glory.

What should he say to his son before he goes?

_Don’t leave me behind. I don’t want to die without you. I don’t want you to die alone._

_I love you._

Instead, he will clasp a hand on Noctis’ shoulder and bury his true words deep in his own heart.

“Walk tall, my son.”

* * *

**The Fourth Sorrow: Meeting**

* * *

Time flows differently in the Ring. Regis knows he is not fully dormant within it, is aware that he somehow has new knowledge and wisdom he could not have gained without speaking with his ancestors residing in that space. But whenever they are summoned into reality, it is like being thrust into a higher awareness, like they had all been simply caught in a sort of half-existence until the current King needed their service. He relishes the freedom for only a moment before realising who has called them.

He knows the moment Noctis puts on the Ring. His son _screams_ with the pain of it. Regis remembers how it feels.

“It’s alright,” Regis tries to say. It’s garbled and incomprehensible behind the helmet.

One of his ancestors touches him on the shoulder and shakes her head. “He will not hear us.”

Another says, “He cannot see us.”

“No,” Regis says. “No, no.”

“Trust me,” says Somnus, the first of them all. “I have tried many times. The kings cannot perceive us until it is time.”

But Regis remembers Nyx Ulric, remembers Ignis. He’d spoken with them from within the Ring, vouched for their loyalty to the kingdom. Surely the gods would not be so cruel. Surely his Noctis would see him.

He shoves the Rogue’s hand off of him and marches to where his son is staggering to his feet. It is the first time Regis has seen Noctis since he had sent him off on his journey. He cannot be much older than that, but he seems so weighed down, so _weary_.

“Noctis,” Regis says. “My dear boy. _Please_.”

For a moment, their gazes meet, until Noctis’ eyes slide past to the empty hallway behind.

The Pious makes a sympathetic sound. The Rogue only laughs, harsh and bitter.

“Be _quiet_ ,” Regis snarls. He reaches out and his hand passes through Noctis’ arm.

Noctis picks himself up and squares his shoulders. He is so strong, Regis’ poor doomed son, bearing the weight of all the damned souls on his finger until he can free them from servitude. He carries himself like a soldier; he does not yet know he is a condemned man.

Regis had once asked Noctis if he were ready. Regis wonders if perhaps he should have asked himself instead.

“The time has come,” Noctis murmurs.

 _Not yet,_ Regis cannot say. _Not yet._

* * *

**The Fifth Sorrow: Crucifixion**

* * *

Noctis is _strong_. Incredibly so, and Regis would be proud of the man his child has become if he were not watching him in his final hours.

Noctis moves like lightning on the battlefield, electric and powerful. He strikes with precision, leaving devastation and the vague scent of ozone in his wake. He wields the arms of his ancestors in the way he was always born to do, with the blessings of gods for his armour. Ten years under Bahamut’s watchful eye has turned him into their perfect warrior.

Ardyn may have been skilled, but he is _tired_. Regis knows about him now, more than he did in life, and he cannot help but feel pity. Ardyn is fuelled by the bitterness of ages, but he longs for his rest, as surely as Somnus stands anxiously beside Regis, awaiting the outcome.

When Ardyn falls, as he must, Somnus lets out a deep, shuddering breath. His hand on Regis’ shoulder tightens its grip, and he screws his eyes shut.

“It’s almost time,” he whispers, opening his eyes again. “Are you ready?”

Regis shakes his head wordlessly.

Somnus smiles crookedly at him. “I never thanked you, you know. For raising the Chosen so well. It must have been hard knowing what he’d have to do.”

It’s strange to find someone who finally understands. Only Clarus had ever come close to feeling the same strange mix of grief and pride. But Gladiolus was meant for a different kind of pain, and Clarus hadn’t understood. Not really.

No one had ever thanked Regis before.

If he could shed tears, he surely would have. Instead he stays silent and takes what little comfort Somnus offers.

Somnus squeezes his shoulder again. “Now, we bring them home.”

Yes. It is time.

Noctis says his goodbyes, and Regis lets himself look at the young men he’d bid farewell to so long ago. These are the men who stayed with Noctis when Regis could not; he’d resented them for it, once, but now he can only be grateful.

“Walk tall,” Noctis says, in an echo of Regis’ final words to him.

(He wishes they would embrace him. He wishes they would hold him tightly and kiss his forehead the way Regis cannot.

 _Don’t let him die alone._ )

Every king falls into step behind Noctis as he ascends the steps into the Citadel. They shadow him in a mournful procession, grieving for their youngest, but Regis can sense their excitement. Their promised rest is at hand.

Noctis seats himself on the throne. Once, when he was about four years old, he had wandered into a general audience in this very room. He’d been inconsolable without his father, so Regis had let him crawl up onto the throne with him. He’d been so small then, and his tiny nose had wrinkled at the uncomfortable seat. Now, he settles into his birthright with the grace of a man. Only the slightest crinkle of his nose betrays him.

At that reminder, Regis can do nothing but turn away.

“I’m home. The time has come,” Noctis says softly. “I’m ready now.”

_I’m not._

“I love you all. Luna, guys… Dad.”

_I love you too._

Noctis takes a deep breath. He takes another, then another, and summons his sword.

Regis hears the call, and finally, is allowed to answer.

_“Kings of Lucis, come to me!”_

Noctis’ eyes widen as he finally perceives the kings gathered around him. There’s a moment of silence, a moment of respect for the coming sacrifice, but they can delay no longer.

Regis doesn’t know who strikes the first blow, but he will always _remember_ it. There is a sick sound of metal against metal, a rush, and his son’s cry. Over and over, one by one, the Lucii run him through and disappear back into the Ring.

Regis tries to think of the end of it all: the promised dawn, the long-awaited rest, Noctis rising in glory for eternity. But the sounds of Noctis’ pain cut through everything else, and Regis is a coward who cannot even look at his son in his final moments.

Then, it is quiet. There is the sound of heavy, heavy metal being dragged against stone, and Regis knows it is time.

He prays silently to Bahamut one last time.

 _If it can be done, let this suffering be taken from us,_ he begs.

“Dad,” Noctis says. His voice is wet from blood and agony. “Trust in me.”

And Regis— Regis could never refuse his son.

With a deep, ragged breath, he gathers all of his strength.

 _Make it quick,_ he thinks. _Do not let him suffer any longer._

Their eyes meet— a breath, and then his child is gone.

* * *

**The Sixth Sorrow: The Descent**

* * *

Noctis looks too small on the throne. When his son had emerged from the Crystal, so much older and wiser, Regis had hoped that the physical changes would be enough to distance himself from the events unfolding. But a good parent knows their child in all the ways that matter most; Regis does not think himself a good father, but his little baby is all too evident in that grown man for it not to hurt.

Now he sits, slumped and unmoving, his own father’s sword lodged deep in his chest. Thin streams of blood pour from his mouth, and his formal raiment is soaked with it.

This is how the King of Light is exalted, with his cooling corpse pinned and bleeding against the throne he never truly inherited. This is how King Noctis brings the dawn: not with glory, but a death as ignoble as any other mortal man’s.

His friends, his brothers approach the throne. The youngest is weeping, and the strong man’s shoulders shake with his tears. But it is the blind one who wails, who reaches a hand towards the King and, finding the instrument of his death, tugs the sword from his breast in one smooth motion.

Noctis’ body slumps down and they catch it with ease, laying him down across Ignis’ lap. Ignis runs his fingers across the features he has never seen, and wipes the blood from his mouth so tenderly. Through the slits of his helmet Regis finds his own anguish mirrored in all their faces, and if he was not broken before, this would be what shatters him.

He kneels as much as he is able, in front of Ignis. He stretches out his arms. Had they been solid, they might have hooked under his son’s body, gently supporting his head. Had he been able, he would have cradled his child close like he had in those sleepless nights of Noctis’ infancy, like on his first day of school, like the way he wishes he had before sending Noctis on his final journey.

His hands pass straight through Noctis’ body.

If he had breath in his lungs, he would have screamed.

* * *

**The Seventh Sorrow: Burial**

* * *

They bury the King in a tomb of stone. They chose a small folly in the Citadel, in a former garden now in ruins, with a running stream beside it that will someday be teeming with life. They bury him with haste, unable to stand the sight of their friend so broken and bloodied. The metal gate of the folly is too bent and rusted for use, so they roll a piece of rubble over the entrance.

With that, the King of Light is left in darkness.

But Regis is no longer there to mourn.

In the throne room of Insomnia’s Citadel, a wedding song plays. Banners and flowers hang from every possible mount, and rich red carpets run up the grand double staircases leading to the throne. The very air is full of light and music, and Regis cannot help but be moved.

Noctis and Lunafreya sit side by side, tiny in the distance. Regis steps forward onto the long carpet, his cane tapping at his side.

With every onward step his body feels lighter. At the halfway point, he throws his cane away. A few more steps, and the armour of kings begins to melt from his body; he barely notices, too intent on his destination. At the foot of the stairs, he is freed from the helm, and gazes up at his son for the first time in a long, long decade.

“Dad,” Noctis says in relief, in the voice of a child who was lost and at last is found. “Dad, we’re home.”

Regis _flies_ up the steps, and there is no heaviness or pain. He runs and runs until he reaches the throne, and his son throws himself into his arms and Regis is finally complete.

“Dad,” Noctis cries, “ _Dad!_ ”

They’re both sobbing, and Regis must be making a mess of Noctis’ pristine new clothes, but he does not care. Noctis is warm and heavy and _real_ , and still smells of the same mint shampoo that he used to.

“Noctis,” Regis says, and tucks his boy’s head under his chin. A lifetime ago, he had cradled his baby son to his chest to soothe him to sleep; Noctis feels just as fragile now, despite the strength Regis has witnessed in him over the years. After everything, Noctis is still his child.

They part eventually, but Noctis hangs on to his sleeve in a remnant of desperate affection, as though afraid Regis would be the one to disappear. They need no introduction, but still Noctis shyly presents Lunafreya as his chosen bride.

It makes Regis’ heart bleed to see the future they had been denied in life, but as Noctis takes his rightful seat on the throne, Lunafreya by his side, he knows that this time will be better.

“May you two know happiness.”

Noctis takes out a photograph— from where, Regis does not see— and handles it carefully, as though it were the most fragile thing. He shows it to Lunafreya, who smiles so tenderly, and they lean in to share the gentlest of kisses.

This is not a moment for the father, whose time has been and gone. This is for the children born for the darkness, born to be the lights, who barely had a chance to live before their little candle-flames were extinguished. But now, they will have eternity.

Regis smiles and leaves them as silently as he came. This time, he does not despair at their parting. His heart is too full for sorrow.

Noctis closes his eyes and finally, finally rests.

And in the land He loved and left behind:

The first touch of warmth falls soft upon the world—

And the heavens part, the seas go still, the very movements of the earth grow silent as if the planet holds its breath—

And the whispering of humanity rises like the sun, and spreads in the coming of the dawn, racing from east to west as the world feels its first sweet touch of sunlight in a decade—

And all around, the people cry:

_Glory, glory, glory to the King of Light!_


End file.
